Morning Watch
by sarahlizzie
Summary: "As a new dawn broke in the life of the Winchesters, I felt I couldn't leave. These boys have been through enough, and it's time I really helped them for a change." Angels, a prophecy, and a plan to re-unite the boys. Set a few months after 5.22. Spoilers
1. Guardian

MORNING WATCH

By Carver Edlund

"_As a new dawn broke in the life of the Winchesters, I felt I couldn't leave. Theoretically my part in this story was done...but I suppose I'm never done. Not with these boys anyway. I know these books are never going to get published - not soon in any case. The Winchester Gospel will take years to be widely accepted. After all, how did I start? An underground cult following of devoted fans? Sounds about right. No, this one's just for me. These boys have been through enough, and it's time I really helped them for a change. _

"_Like I said, endings are never really endings. The end of one chapter can oh-so-easily become the beginning of a new one. The end of a story just tempts a sequel. For I am the End...the Omega...and now wasn't my time."_

_

* * *

_

Sam looked towards the house, his face stoic and free from emotion. He'd pretty much used up all his emotion for the time being. He could see Dean sitting at Lisa's kitchen table, scotch in hand, truly smiling for the first time in months.

He knew what it was like to lose one's brother - those four months Dean had spent in Hell were harrowing. Sam wished he'd had someone to fall back on, not just Ruby.

He was glad he'd made Dean promise to do this. He was glad his brother was happy, even if it wasn't with him.

Sam left his position in front of the house, having not ever intended to disturb his brother. This was the life he'd always wanted, and he wasn't going to fuck it up. Dean not knowing his brother had returned would be the best thing for him.

He felt better now, now that it was all over. He felt more at peace, and stronger than ever.

Despite all this, he still didn't feel strong enough to leave Dean.

He knew he should be elsewhere; he knew he should be doing his duty and leaving him in peace...but he couldn't bring himself to. All his life, Dean had been the one to protect Sam, and the younger Winchester felt that now, it was his turn to protect Dean - to make sure he kept his promise. To make sure he lived the life he'd always wanted, and to make sure he was happy.

If Sam were to come back into his life, he'd only be reminded of all that angel, demon, apocalypse crap. And he couldn't do that to Dean. Not after all he'd been through.

With one last look at Lisa's house, Sam walked to the end of the street, beyond the orange glow of the street lamps and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Sam rarely slept anymore, not since he'd gotten out of the pit. Nor did he eat much - just enough for his body to function, and after years of living on the road that wasn't a whole lot. Ever since Gabriel died he'd had an odd craving for all things sweet, too...though he supposed that was hidden grief manifesting itself in a strange way.

Still, since he couldn't rely on the sanctuary of the Impala anymore, Sam felt he needed a home; a base of sorts. Somewhere close to Dean, in Cicero, but not so close he'd come snooping around and find him. The hunter's instinct flowed true in Dean's blood still - the whole 'run-towards-the-scream' compulsion. Sam knew he'd come looking around this place if he thought there was something suspicious there.

Not that Sam couldn't hide from Dean; he knew all his tricks, plus a few more Dean himself didn't even know. He wouldn't have any trouble disappearing if needs be.

So it was now, with a heavy heart, that he returned home - though this 'base' didn't exactly feel like home, it was the best he could do.

He settled down in a chair to slumber: Sam didn't really consider this sleep; it was more a watchful rest. He let his body recuperate while still being on guard. The house creaked like nobody's business. This annoyed Sam to no end, because he'd always been taught to jump at the slightest sound, and each time a tiny gust of wind made the ancient house shift in its foundations, he would wake, grabbing on to one of the many weapons he still instinctively carried around his coat pockets.

Not that he'd been bothered by a demon or anything for more than a month. With Lucifer down in the cage, most of them resigned and most went back to Hell...a few stayed but those rebellious ones were taken down: some by the angels, some by other hunters, a few by Sam himself.

Of spirits there were plenty. The Apocalypse had taken its toll on those with unfinished business. But Sam ignored them: most weren't causing trouble as their unfinished business was to say goodbye to their boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, brothers, et cetera. He'd let Jennifer Love Hewitt deal with those ones.

"_Wow, Sammy, I didn't know you could get any gayer. Ghost Whisperer? Seriously?_"

Sam bit back a sob as in his own head, Dean's reaction played out. He knew the guy so well, he could just imagine what he'd say to each of Sam's musings. He let no tears fall. He kept his emotions inside, like he had been forced to do from the moment he decided never to bother Dean again.

He closed his eyes again, drifting into his light slumber.

"_Sam..._"

The hunter jumped again, this time sure it wasn't the creaking house that had said his name. No, it was someone he knew; a voice he recognized.

"_Sam...!_"

The voice was almost a whisper, but Sam still heard it above the howling wind outside. Suddenly, he was crippled by a pounding headache and soon came to the realization that the voice was in his own head.

"Father?"

After Sam spoke he immediately sounded stupid - and felt it. His empty house was silent, and the voice in his head had disappeared. He felt ridiculous: it was common knowledge amongst the angels that God was either dead or incognito, and He certainly wasn't talking to Sam. He only talks to Joshua, everybody knew that.

"_Sam?_"

Yet there it was again! Clear as day...Sam knew he wasn't making things up, that he wasn't crazy. He knew it was his Father - he would recognize the voice, despite having never heard it.

"Yes?"

"_Sam...I found you. Do you know who I am?"_

"Of course, Father." Sam collapsed to his knees on the cold ground, making his jeans muddy. He could clean that up later. "What is it you require of me?"

The voice laughed awkwardly; a laugh Sam thought he recognized. "_Well, I was hoping you could do me a favor." _Sam pressed his eyes shut, and felt something glow inside him. "_Do you remember when I resurrected you? Do you remember what I gave you in return for your services?"_

"You made me an angel, Father." Sam smiled a little at this; it had been unprecedented - but not unwelcome - when he had gotten the same treatment as Castiel. He admired God's sense of irony at making him, of all people, an angel.

"_I did. But you must have gotten lost on the way to Heaven. There's no need for angels on Earth anymore, Sam."_

Sam bowed his head in shame.

"I'm sorry, Father. But... I couldn't leave Dean," he said, the crack in his voice betraying him.

There it was - the laugh again. Sam felt his Grace glow, and he sighed deeply. "_That's who I came to see you about, Sam. Neither of you are happy in this current situation. I have a task for you."_

"Anything, Father. Anything."


	2. Sheriff

"_Castiel was a minor but integral part of the Winchesters' tale. He's probably wondering why his Father didn't just...resurrect him the first time and be done with it. He's probably wondering why He took his powers away when he made Castiel 2.0. If he were to read this, he would know that it was for his own good. Turning him slowly human wasn't a punishment...far from it. It is certainly a humbling experience - to go from being omnipotent to finding your powers are gone and you're just the same as the next guy. I would know. I believe that time away from Heaven was essential for Cass...if he had never lost his powers,he wouldn't have been so willing to die for Sam and Dean. He wouldn't have been so devoted to them if he hadn't known what it was like to be on their level._

"_Cass will thank me for it, in time. As it is, now he's trying to keep Heaven under control and I don't envy him one bit."_

* * *

Castiel kept repeating Dean's words in his head - 'new sheriff in town.' Yes, he did like that.

But S_weet Lord _these angels were hard to manage.

Dean was right - they were all dicks, and most of them could do with an attitude adjustment. There were a few, particularly, who were a distinct pain in Castiel's ass. Most were less powerful than the new Castiel and were manageable. But there were certainly a few, angels who had been higher up the hierarchy than Cass and were jealous of his promotion from Private to General, who tried their best to make his life hell.

Sariel, in particular, was one annoying SOB. The High Court Judge - as he so arrogantly named himself - had Heaven's most inflamed ego. Just because he was the Angel of Judgment, it made him think he could strut around like he owned the place, and bark orders at Castiel, despite Castiel technically being his senior.

There was distinct tension between them, even though they were supposed to be equals, fighting together and leading together. Castiel, after much deliberation, decided it was time to put a stop to it.

"You two, yes you over there. Stop that immediately. Listen to me, or I'll tell our Father." Two young, female angels looked up at Sariel with slightly frightened faces and scurried away. "That's it, move along."

"Sariel," Castiel said, approaching the angel with trepidation.

"Oh, yes, erm..." Sariel paused, placing his finger to his chin in mock puzzlement. "Sorry, I don't remember your name."

Castiel gave him a look that was meant to say: 'cross-me-one-more-time-and-I'll-smite-you' but apparently it didn't turn out that way, for Sariel plastered a smug smile on his face. He strutted out a small circle around Castiel. He scowled - even Sariel's walk was infuriating.

"Something you want to talk about?" The self-satisfied smirk was still taunting Castiel with its arrogance. Sariel reminded Cass too much of that self-righteous demon, Crowley. British accent included.

Castiel swallowed before starting. "Yes. I feel as though you are disrespecting my authority."

"Disrespect...?" Sariel burst out laughing. He doubled over, and Castiel cast his eyes around at the surrounding angels, who had stopped to stare. He tried to ignore the incredulous stares he was receiving from Heaven's other residents. "Authority?" Castiel tightened the line of his lips, glaring at Sariel with distaste and dislike. "As if...you actually...have authority round here!"

Castiel, suddenly full of rage, grasped at Sariel's collar and pulled him so he was face to face with him. "More authority than _you,_ certainly."

Sariel raised his eyebrows, letting out another chuckle. "I'm one of the seven _archangels,_" he said scathingly. With a long finger, he prodded Castiel in the chest with each syllable he spoke. "You're just a filthy little rebel." He removed his hand, and brought his face closer to Castiel's. Their close proximity made Castiel uncomfortable, but he held fast. "Who made you Queen?"

After a long pause, Castiel's angry features softened, to an almost frightening smile. He tossed Sariel to the ground and stood over him, hand outstretched to the other angel's throat. He cocked his head to the side as he looked down at Sariel.

"I think you'd better watch your tone with me, Sariel." The other angel began to struggle against the unseen force that was holding him to the ground. "God made me Michael's replacement, ergo..." he knelt down so he was much closer to Sariel. "...I'm your boss."

Sariel's eyes looked up at him accusingly, piercing and angry. Castiel stood up and turned around, beginning to walk away.

"And as your boss..." he added, turning to look at the archangel, who still lay on the ground. "I'd like to enforce a simple rule unto you, and unto all of you," he said, addressing the angels that had gathered and grown silent as the dispute took place. "...Respect the authority that God has bestowed upon me."

* * *

Castiel didn't notice anything suspicious at first - that was the danger of the combination of leadership with inexperience. The other angels certainly followed his rule; they seemed to be more respectful of him recently. Sariel, on the other hand, didn't speak to him unless it was absolutely necessary. 'Teamwork' was a word clearly lost on him, and as much as Castiel tried to get him to cooperate, most of the time he would sit in a corner doing something incredibly useless. Unless his presence was required, he would just sit, and sulk.

He finally decided to confront him, to tell him to work as part of God's army again - not that Sariel didn't jump at the chance to judge someone when the opportunity arose. Warily, but with the appearance of confidence, Castiel approached Sariel, crouching down to his level when he reached the angel in his corner.

Sariel didn't look up, but continued to stare at his fingers, between which he was twirling a small ball of flame - utterly useless and infinitely annoying to Castiel.

"Listen," he began, but Sariel still didn't look up. Castiel cleared his throat. "I wanted to apologize...for before. I didn't mean to...ah...mess anything up."

"Well, you certainly succeed in doing _that," _Sariel replied scathingly, finally looking up. "But..." he said, with a smile that Castiel didn't quite count as genuine, but it was good enough. "Apology accepted."

Castiel smiled too, gripping the other angel's arm to help him up. "I'm glad. I could really use your help."

"Of course."

Sariel leaned forward and placed a kiss on Castiel's cheek, and then the other. The angels - unconcerned with sexuality - used this as a sign of forgiveness; of friendship, and of trust.

But Sariel's kiss was entirely different. His kiss was one of betrayal, like Judas in Gethsemane. When he pulled away, he slyly hid the spark of rebellion in his eyes from Castiel, who was still smiling innocently at him.

It seemed ironic for him, of all the angels, to be the leader of a planned rebellion against Castiel. He was the one to judge the disobedient angels; created by God for that exact purpose. But Castiel had been disobedient first, and it was up to Sariel to exact justice.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for all the response for the first chapter. I'm really excited about this story, and I really appreciate reviews. They are love. Like, for cereal. Spread the love! I always reply! Xxx**


	3. Servant

"_Sam Winchester. Yes, he's certainly a puzzle. I feel bad for him, looking back on everything. Poor boy, being continually jerked around by Azazel, and then Lucifer. Not to mention the way he and John had always been at each others' throats. Yes, Sam Winchester has been through much._

"_That's why I did what I did. As a sort of reward for all he's been through. He won't rot in the pit, and he gets to be a member of the 'much better club' - as Castiel called it. _

"_But he'll never be happy if he's not with Dean. Zachariah was right about their co-dependence. But he's stubborn; self-sacrifice, after all, is the Winchester way. All he needs is a push in the right direction."_

* * *

"Anything, Father. Anything."

The voice laughed again, almost gleefully. "_Awesome._"

Opening his eyes, Sam cocked an eyebrow. He definitely knew that voice; he'd heard it before.

"What do you require of me?" he asked, forgetting his previous thoughts in favour for the more pressing matter.

"_Sam, I need you to go to Dean._"

Sam narrowed his eyes, lips parting in surprise. Every fibre of his being; every part of him wanted to say no. He couldn't go back to Dean. That was out of the question. But to defy a direct order from God? Whether he liked it or not, Sam was an angel now, and God's word was law.

But he couldn't go back to Dean. He couldn't.

"Father...I...I'm not sure I can."

There was silence for a long time, and Sam looked down at the ground in shame. Saying no to God? He was as bad as Lucifer.

"_I understand, Sam. But trust me on this one: Dean's not happier without you._"

For some reason, Sam doubted that.

Doubting God? What had gotten into him?

"Father, if I go back...I made him promise. He needs a normal life, after all this. Angels...constitute 'not normal'." Sam almost choked on his words - he wanted more than anything for Dean to have the life the two of them had only dreamed of.

There was silence again; not even any wind now to block out the pressing quiet.

"_...What is it you're really afraid of, Sam?_"

Sam thought, long and hard. Was he really worried that he would prevent Dean from living the 'apple-pie' life? A worry that overrode his wish to see him again, to hear their banter or to pull him into a gigantic hug? When he really thought about it...no, that's not really what he was scared of.

"...He won't be happy when he sees me. He'll think I'm a demon, or a monster, or...or Lucifer." Sam swallowed lethargically. "After all, that was the way he saw me last: almost punching the life out of him." Sam stopped, bowed his head and shed a lone tear. "I'm afraid he'll hate me."

* * *

"I'm so sorry, Father. But I can't."

"_I assume you know what happened to the last angel who defied my direct order?_"

Sam choked back a sob. "I do. Very well, Father." It was all too vivid in his mind. He could remember the merging of the Devil's memories with his own like it was yesterday.

"_Then you I wish you would try and understand why I want you to do this. Neither you nor Dean are happy. I want you to be._"

Sam looked down, a little angry. "I...I am happy," he lied, gritting his teeth. "Why shouldn't I be? I'm an angel now."

There was silence for a long time, and Sam was prepared for the worst - for the wrath of God or His angel army bearing down on the sinner. He waited for minutes...long, crushing minutes that felt like hours. And yet he could still feel his Grace inside him - fully intact and, if possible, brighter than ever.

When the door of his 'home' creaked open, Sam jumped up. He grabbed his old gun from the table just behind him and pointed it at the intruder, cocked and with a finger hovering over the trigger. What had made him so suspicious all of a sudden? Upon seeing who it was, though, he lowered it.

"Chuck?"

The small man smiled, something from Sam's old life he remembered and was comforted by. He was glad to see him - it was sort of...a relief...to have a friend from before who was still around. He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt rather than his usual striped robe and boxers. He also looked a little more...kempt than usual.

"Sam...I found you."

Realization dawned as Chuck spoke, and Sam's eyes opened wide in shock. Now he knew where he'd heard the voice in his head before. He fell to his knees again, bowing his head and grimacing a little at the pain. He knew his knees would hurt - but upon considering it for a second he remembered that he could easily heal his body. This angel thing was going to take some getting used to.

"Father, I'm so sorry...I'm sorry I lied..." Sam spoke quickly as his eyes scrunched themselves shut. "I'm as bad as..." He couldn't even say his name. "I deserve to be punished."

Sam looked up to see Chuck laughing. "Sam!" He said finally, slightly exasperated. "You've had enough bad stuff in your life already. If I didn't think you deserved to be an angel, I wouldn't have done it."

He walked over to Sam and grasped his hand. He pulled him to his feet, and Sam was ashamed when he remembered he was taller than Him, so he lowered his eyes and refused to look at Him.

"If I didn't think you deserved to be happy, I wouldn't be making you do this."

Sam took a deep breath. He understood - he knew now that God was just trying to help him and his brother. And how he wanted to go back! How he wanted to pull his older brother into a hug, like the ones they used to share, before the Apocalypse, before Lucifer...

But that's who Sam would always be to him. Lucifer. A monster. Something he'd want to hunt, or kill.

"What do I have to say to convince you that this is right? Do you not trust me, Sam?"

Sam laughed a single, bitter laugh at the ridiculousness of the question. "Of course, Father! Of course I trust you!"

"I understand, Sam, why you don't want to go back to Dean. I do. And I know I've put you through much." Chuck - was it really still appropriate to think of him as this name? - ran a hand over His face.

Sam cursed himself silently. He was terrible at being a servant of Heaven - just a few months on the job and he'd already broken the rules about a gazillion times. He found himself incredibly grateful for God's seemingly endless mercy...people in pews had sung about it for centuries, but actually experiencing it was a different feeling altogether.

He looked up at Chuck again, whose expression was one of pained resignation. "Alright then, Sam." He paused, as though deliberating. "As much as I hate to say it, I won't make you do this, since you wish so ardently not to."

Sam managed a small smile, his heart suddenly fill of joy. He felt his Grace swell and glow inside him. "Thank you, Father. Really."

Chuck grinned now, in his endearingly awkward way, looking down and shaking His head. "Honestly, you Winchesters. You're so determined to be miserable."

Sam didn't know if he was allowed to laugh at that or not. He settled for a smile, and relaxed into Chuck's touch as He patted him on the shoulder.

"I really am proud of you, Sam," He said, looking up at the younger Winchester and smiling. "Honestly. I'm not angry that you don't want to do this. It was just for your own good, anyway."

"Father, I'm truly sorry. It's just...I can't. He's got the life now. He's got Lisa, and Ben. He's happy."

Chuck just smiled and turned, muttering to Himself as He walked towards the door. "If only I could show you how wrong you are, Sam. If only you'd see."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry if the last chapter felt a little out of place. I was saying to HigherMagic: "I need sub-plot!" so I sort of weaved in another post-5.22 plot bunny of Cass in heaven. And ever since I'd read on a webpage about the archangel Sariel I'd wanted to put him in a story. Their plots intertwine later though. My friend crazyfunkyjunkyglove wants me to mention her, and would also like to say that she loves Michael Buble. So if you see him, kidnap him and mail him to Massachusetts. **

**Reviews are love! **


	4. Rebel

"_I had never intended for the angels to be so rebellious - but I guess that's the risk when you give them the ability to take a vessel and give them the illusion of free will. They're just like humans, in reality. Sometimes it's like having octuplets - multiplied by a factor of about a million. You simply don't have enough hands to hold them all back._

"_But there are some - some whose nature is to be rebellious. These are the ones who I cherish...they probably would particularly hate my use of them as pawns in my plans. No, not pawns. They're the Queen - a little too powerful for her own good but utterly irreplaceable. _

"_I had always known Castiel couldn't stay in the heavenly garrison for long, not with the way he would always question everything, and especially after he met Dean. But that was how it was meant to be all along, after all."_

_

* * *

_

The day started peacefully for Castiel; all the angels were carrying out their tasks dutifully and with purpose - even more so than usual. Even Sariel...though there was something uncharacteristically cheerful about him.

If Castiel could have learned one thing from all that time among the humans, he should have learned to be suspicious, and not take for granted what seems out of place.

But Castiel was unwisely trustful, and went about his day's duties with a smile on his face, in spite of himself.

Sariel, like a serpent under the flower, smiled as he sauntered arrogantly up to Castiel. The other angel hadn't really expected Sariel's attitude to change - he was satisfied with co-operation no matter how reluctant it was.

The archangel hadn't expected it to be as easy as walking up to Castiel and planting a blade in his back. No, Castiel was quick; he'd had to survive without his powers and necessity, after all, is the mother of invention. Fighting against other angels - other angels who had more mojo than he - on a daily basis had made him an even better fighter than before; aware of everything and senses as sharp as the best of God's Generals. He knew all the tricks, too. Of course, who knows rebellion better than a rebel?

So, even as Sariel clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder and aimed his long, silver sword at the very centre of his back, he knew it wasn't going to be as simple as that.

The angel twisted out of his grasp and bent his torso with lightning speed, and Sariel's blade stabbed thin air. As instinct, Castiel grabbed the arm that had been previously on his shoulder and flipped Sariel onto the ground.

Castiel glanced at Sariel once he had flipped him; his gaze was one of abandonment and surprise at Sariel's betrayal, and in the next second was one of anger and dominance. Castiel hadn't broken a sweat, but neither had Sariel. In fact, the arrogant bastard was just lying there, grinning up at Castiel.

He'd seen this coming, yes; which was why he had recruited backup.

When Castiel looked up, he saw the circle. All around him, blades in hands, were dozens of angels, all posed to attack. He recognized the two female angels who had been so afraid of Sariel the day before, standing side by side, comrades in arms, standing up against their comrade. It seemed Sariel could still command respect, and Cass only had a few seconds to be envious of him.

The circle of angels began to advance at a silent signal from Sariel, stepping forward and closing in on the two angels. Castiel heard nothing but the bitter sting of Sariel's victorious laughter.

Castiel was quick, but not quick enough to take on all these angels at once.

In a brief moment of weakness, Castiel panicked, and with a flick of his wrists brought up some sort of force-field that shimmered sea green. It was dome shaped and covered him and Sariel, and the circle of angels found they couldn't cross it when they tried. Castiel had to support it, it seemed, with at least one outstretched hand.

He looked down at Sariel with disappointment, perhaps with a little fear lingering in his ever-blue eyes. Sariel's smile had faded when he had seen the protective dome appear - he hadn't exactly planned for this and hoped that something would come to pass to turn the tables in his favour.

"Brother, why?" The angel above him spoke quietly and Sariel looked up, a small smile forming on his lips as he saw Castiel's expression of dejection. Sensing a moment of weakness, he inched his fingers closer to the blade that had slipped just out his reach.

Castiel, despite having his hands full, was ever-diligent, and noticed Sariel's last-ditch attempt to attack. With a soft sweep of his foot he sent the blade skidding along the floor. It came to rest just inside the circle, out of Sariel's reach. The angels outside, too, still gawping in at the pair as though they were in a fishbowl, couldn't get a hold of it.

"Because, Castiel," he began again, after his plan of attack failed. "You are a rebel. It's my God-given job to dispel and disperse rebellion, and to cast judgment on those who disobey," he said, glancing pointedly at Castiel with a cocky smile on his lips.

Castiel kept his jaw set firm and didn't relinquish his angry stare at the other angel. Not ever - not once - did Castiel regret what he'd done. Not when he'd exploded at the hands of Raphael; not while his angel powers were slowly disintegrating; not even when Dean had almost said 'yes' to Michael, after everything.

And not now. Definitely not now.

Castiel sighed, cocking his head as he did so to look down at Sariel with what he'd hoped was an intimidating look. "You know, our Father told us to forgive each other not seven, but seventy times seven times." Sariel just continued to glare, not quite knowing what the other angel was getting at.

Castiel removed the foot that he hadn't realized he'd been resting lightly on Sariel's chest, and leant down to offer a hand to help him up. Sariel scowled as he grudgingly took it, and watched in envy as Castiel didn't even stumble, the hand holding up the forcefield only wavering a little.

Maybe Castiel was an idiot for doing so, but the decision to forgive him was hardly his own.

Once the archangel was standing, Castiel lifted his chin a little, as though to appear taller than him. His glare determined and his lips pressed into a thin line, Castiel whispered gruffly and scathingly into Sariel's face, quiet enough so that the surrounding angels couldn't hear: "You're running out of times."

With a glare, Sariel wrenched his arm free from Castiel's still-tight grip. The tension could be cut with an angel blade as the two angels stared each other down, the air between them buzzing with unspoken hatred of the other.

"Honestly, Castiel. What happened to you?" Sariel started, lips curling up to form a shrewd smirk. "You used to be such a good little soldier. You refused to be corrupted by Uriel when he disobeyed. You turned in Anna. What changed?"

The answer was obvious to Castiel: Dean. Too much time around the hunter had led to his Devil-may-care attitude being absorbed into Castiel's own personality. Suddenly Dean and his cause were more important to him than any orders from heaven.

As a reply, he simply shook his head and ordered the surrounding angels to disperse. They hesitated, looking to one another for guidance as to which angel they should take orders from. Castiel looked down, avoiding everyone's eyes, with shame, and whispered softly to Sariel.

"Tell them to disperse."

"Sorry, I didn't hear the magic w..."

"Please," Castiel added grudgingly, a little louder than he'd wanted to. Sariel smiled and addressed the assembled angels.

"You heard the man. Sod off, the lot of you." They turned away a few at a time. "What's wrong with you?" Sariel shouted after them. "Can't you see that he's your superior? If I see you disobey a direct order from him again I swear I'll make each of you pay!" Castiel could tell there was not even a hint of sincerity in Sariel's voice as he said it.

Castiel was acutely displeased. Not only was Sariel relentlessly out of his control, but now so were several garrisons' worth of angels - perhaps more: how many had Sariel gotten to?

He kept the force-field up for precautions' sake; the colour changed as he calmed to a paler green. Sariel wasn't looking at him, but rather gazing wistfully at the blade on the floor. Castiel spoke first.

"Why can't we get along?" he asked simply, lifting his gaze to Sariel's face. "We're supposed to be brothers. We're supposed to be fighting as a single unit."

Sariel sighed, a sound which in itself managed to sound disdainful. "You speak the truth, Castiel. As much as I hate to admit it." Sariel sauntered - even his damn walk was smug - up to Castiel. He only stopped when they were uncomfortably close, their chests practically flush.

"But Cass," - he felt a defensive pang at that...that nickname was reserved for Dean! - "I think we can be more than brothers." Castiel tensed at the sudden feeling of on of Sariel's warm hand on the small of his back.

Castiel was vividly reminded of something he wished to forget. While drunk, Chuck's girlfriend Becky had persuaded him to read a 'slash fic,' on the 'internet'. Castiel had only managed to get halfway through before feeling the need to vomit. Needless to say, he'd been scarred for life. The 'more than brothers' comment only reminded him of memories he'd managed to keep safely stowed away in the back of his mind up until now.

Castiel pressed both hands on Sariel's chest to push him away, causing the pale green dome to flicker and fall. Sariel simply smiled and held fast, his strong hand pressing their bodies closer together.

As much as he tried to struggle against Sariel's grip, Castiel soon realized it was in vain. When Castiel tried to twist free, Sariel had just grasped his shoulder, preventing him from moving.

With a sadistic glint in his eye, Sariel dragged his hand from Castiel's shoulder down to the very centre of his chest. Gripping tighter, Sariel pushed hard into Castiel's chest, right above his heart.

There was a scream of pain and a flash of blinding white light as Castiel arched his back. Light exploded from where his eyes and mouth should have been, and a high pitched whine surrounded them all.

When Sariel pulled back, Castiel was gasping, pupils blown wide and a thin line of blood trailing down his chin. Sariel held tight, leaning in to whisper to Castiel. "I think we can be friends, don't you?" He pressed lightly on Castiel's chest again, and there was another scream. "Perks," he began, pulling away again, "of being an archangel."

"Brother," Castiel panted, stopping Sariel from pressing with his palm again. "I just... want to say ...that I forgive you." Sariel narrowed his eyes and pressed down again with a determined grimace. Another scream, then silence, before Castiel whispered: "No matter what you say, that is what Father would want us to do."

"You're right, of course, in that annoying little way of yours," Sariel replied, not relinquishing his grip on the angel. "But I choose not to take advice from rebels. Not from dirty, rebel scum such as yourself." Castiel looked up at him sadly, betrayed and defeated. His blue eyes were silently pleading with Sariel, though inside Castiel knew it was futile. Sariel just smiled and cocked his head in mock pity. "I'm sorry, brother. Justice needs to be served."

With that, he pressed his palm firmly into Castiel's chest once more. He screamed, a deafening, heartbreaking sound and the white light exploded from every orifice again.

Sariel let go of the hand on his back, letting Castiel fall. He tripped over some sort of invisible cliff and began to fall downwards. He desperately grasped for Sariel's help, but none was offered.

Castiel's mouth was open in a silent scream, and blue eyes pleaded to Sariel, but he just laughed as he watched the other angel - the treacherous rebel - fall over the invisible precipice and disappear from sight.


	5. Angel

"_Confrontation. It's fun to write, I'll tell you that much. Less fun for the people involved, but hey. That's what you get with writing. What's a good book without some juicy confrontation? What's a story without some angst to thicken the plot?_

"_I do regret it though. Putting Sam and Dean through the bugs was one thing, but making them fight? It's hard to do, honestly. Even if it needs to be done. What would have happened if they hadn't been through all the hardships, all the fighting and then the making up? For each time they crawled back to each other - no matter how big the fight; whether it was something as small as Dean stealing a few of Sam's paper route quarters to play video games, or something as big as an Apocalypse - each time, they were getting stronger. Each time it made them realize how they couldn't stand being apart. Each time the bond between them grew to be so unbreakable that not even angels could shatter it._

"_If you're reading this, Dean - which you will - I am sorry. I apologize for making you fight with Sammy. If I made you two fight, it was only so that you would realize how much you truly love each other, and how much you can't live without each other. I hope you look back and see that it was all for the best."_

_

* * *

_

To be entirely honest, Castiel had expected to be dead. He had thought he'd reached his time when he felt his Grace wither and break at Sariel's touch.

Instead he found himself laying on his back, inky black sky above him, peppered with stars. The ground beneath him was cold and hard, and running fingertips over it, he sensed it was rough and gravelly.

Castiel was on Earth, he knew that much. Only Earth was this damp, and uncomfortable.

"Cass?"

He twisted towards the voice, which he soon realized was just about the most stupid thing he could have done. His ribs felt like they were made out tissue paper, and would tear themselves to pieces if he moved too much. There was a burning pain throughout his torso that flared when he would try and contract his muscles.

Of course, Sariel's treacherous hand would've caused this. He knew he wouldn't be so lucky to escape without a scratch.

What confused him even more was the fact that he was in a body at all. Had he taken a vessel? There was no way in Hell Jimmy would've said 'yes' again, no matter how nicely Castiel asked. Of course, he could've threatened his daughter again, but that was somewhat uncouth and not really Castiel's style.

Then he remembered - angels could make themselves take human forms, if times were really desperate. He peered down at his body - turned out it was pretty much exactly the same as Jimmy. Same trenchcoat, same lightly tanned skin over lean muscles.

Castiel suddenly felt a hand touch his shoulder and he tensed, the searing in his muscles flaring up again. "Cass...what the hell happened?"

"Sam?"

"...Yeah, it's me."

Castiel smiled as he looked up and saw the familiar shaggy chestnut hair flop into his line of vision. Sam's expression was one of concern, but Castiel couldn't have been happier to see anyone else.

"Sam...I'm glad to see you. Are you...where am I?"

His voice was dry and breathy, as though he needed a drink. With pain flashing through his body, he coughed twice. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, he saw a rather frightening amount of thick, crimson blood.

"Cicero, Indiana," Sam replied, tentatively scraping a hand underneath Castiel's head to prop him up a little. "Why are you here? What happened?"

"I...uh..." Castiel stuttered, coughing again. "It's Sariel. He did this."

Sam turned the name over in his head; he recognized it. He'd read it on a wikipedia page or something, almost two years ago when he'd first heard about the angels. He remembered reading that people used to put his shield or his symbols on their flags when they went into battle - he was basically Michael's right hand man.

"I think I've been...excommunicated or something." Castiel tried to sit up, only to be met with blinding pain and what sounded like cracking ribs.

"Woah, woah, woah. Easy, Cass," Sam said, his voice calming. "Take it easy." He gently steered Castiel's shoulder back to the ground, and watched as he closed his eyes, clearly in pain. A trickle of blood ran down his chin; he looked almost as dejected and broken as when Pestilence had struck him down with his patented Illness-Medley. Guaranteed to make you feel like crap and puke up pea soup - Sam remembered all too clearly.

"Why can't you heal yourself? You're not...oh, no. You're not human again, are you?"

Castiel groaned, both in pain and at the memory of feeling pathetically useless as a human. "No. Not that I can tell. The only reason I'm not healing myself right now is because another angel did this directly with his powers. It cannot be reversed: I have to let my body heal, the human way."

Sam laughed. "The old-fashioned way," he said, raising two fingers to touch to Castiel's head, but he stopped him. Imploringly blue eyes looked up at him sadly.

"You can't do it either."

Sam hastily removed his hand, as though it had touched something hot. "Hang on...you know I'm..."

"Of course I know you're an angel. Everyone knows."

"How?" Sam was a little uneasy about 'everyone' knowing: who did he mean by 'everyone'? Was that just the angels, or was it more than that? Did this mean Dean knew?

Castiel sighed, tentatively running a hand over his face. "God doesn't _make _angels very often. You can imagine it's rather a big deal. Especially someone such as Sam Winchester."

"Oh." Sam felt a little odd; he didn't honestly like being the centre of attention, especially when he himself didn't know. All of a sudden, the memories of what it was like to have people talk behind his back about him came flooding back- the whispers of 'freak' in high school hallways that people thought Sam couldn't hear.

With a small smile, Sam tentatively shifted his hand so he could lift Castiel's head more, and slid an arm underneath the angel's legs. "Come on, let's get you out of here." With relative ease, Sam lifted Castiel's weak and trembling body. He heard a whimper and looked down to see a grimace of pain on Castiel's face. "Easy; it's okay. I'm squatting in an old house a few blocks from here." Sam let out a single, bittersweet laugh. "Kids probably think it's haunted."

Sam thought he saw a hint of a smile on Castiel's face. Straightening, Sam began to walk down the road, guessing correctly that teleporting wouldn't be the best thing for the injured angel.

"Why are you here?" he asked suddenly, his voice still sounding more hoarse than usual. Sam stayed silent for a long time. When he didn't answer, Castiel let out a soft 'oh.' "It's Dean, isn't it? This is where Lisa lives; you're spying on Dean again."

Sam stopped, angry. "Don't call it spying. I'm...looking after him."

Castiel looked up at him, a little skeptical. He had that patented angel head tilt, even though he was laying down. There was a moment of silence when the two angels simply looked at each other. Castiel finally spoke. "The angels...they talk about you. Some of them, they're on your side. Some of them...they think you rebellious and disobedient." Castiel looked away. "They can't understand why you're not coming back to Heaven."

"What the hell?" Sam exclaimed, his anger getting the better of him. He very nearly dropped Cass; a streetlight nearby exploded into a shower of sparks. "Why are they all talking about me?"

Castiel gave that death glare that he only reserved for special cases. "Don't flatter yourself Sam. They're just whispers, that's all."

Sam grumbled, but kept on walking. They had only gotten a few yards, tense silence building between them, when Castiel spoke.

"I agree with them."

Sam stopped again, looking with fierce determination into Castiel's eyes. "What?" he asked, practically livid.

"I agree with them," Castiel repeated boldly. "They think you're deliberately disobeying God, and well...I know you. You're not exactly the 'listen to the boss' type."

Sam was practically shaking with rage. "What do you mean?" he asked with relative calmness.

"We all remember the last angel who disobeyed a direct order from God."

"What do you mean?" he asked again. "You mean..."

"Lucifer," Castiel frankly finished for him. _Well, in for a penny._

Sam pulled his lips into a thin line, glaring lividly straight ahead. His chest was shaking with each of his deep breaths, despite not really needing to breathe. Castiel watched as all around them, streetlights began to explode and the whole street was plunged into darkness.

"Sam," he said calmly, grimacing in pain as he tried to soothingly stroke Sam's shoulder. "You need to learn to control your anger."

"I really wish," he began, his voice scathing. Castiel could feel the anger rolling off him in waves; most of it probably directed at him. "That people would stop comparing me to Lucifer!"

As instinct, Castiel winced as he prepared for the blast of Sam's anger. He looked up to see Sam's jaw clenching with the effort to keep his powers in check.

But the car alarm Castiel heard behind him was proof enough that he was having trouble doing so.

"Sam, please," Castiel begged, as he felt Sam's grip on his body tighten. He knew that newly-acquired powers were hard to control but _damn it all _ if that didn't still hurt. "You're angry; I understand. But that's no need to destroy the entire street!"

Sam took a deep breath; he knew he should stop, he knew he was hurting Castiel and if he carried on like this he could hurt Dean...no, he couldn't hurt Dean. That was entirely counterproductive.

"I'm sorry," he whispered after a pause, relaxing his grip on Castiel's body. Sam's shaking had subsided, and Castiel's hand on his arm was more of a comfort now. The two of them stood in darkness, not saying anything.

* * *

Opening bleary eyes to the distant sound of a car alarm, Dean woke. Checking his clock, he noted that it was 2:41 and he quietly rose from the bed, careful not to wake Lisa.

It wasn't unusual for Dean to wake up in the night like this. For the last two months or so - was it really that recent? - he'd not slept a single night all the way through. That was a lie. He'd pretty much been out that one night that he'd drunk Cicero out of all the alcohol it had - but a good night's sleep doesn't count if it's on your front stoop.

Stretching, he began to make his way to the door, to go downstairs and fix himself a nice glass of warm milk...or perhaps a nice glass of whiskey. Yes, that sounded perfect.

With a groan he surveyed the bedroom; force of habit. Damned hunter's instinct had still stuck with him; it only made the pain worse, but hey. Life's a bitch. He'd always make sure everything was ship shape before he left or entered a room: checked the salt lines were still in place - he'd insisted; Lisa didn't complain - checked for dead people on the ceiling. You know. The norm.

This time he noticed something odd. Outside the window, it was totally dark. Not that it wasn't normal for it to be dark at 2am, but there were usually orange streetlights outside. Sons of bitches flickered like nobody's business, but they'd never totally gone out.

With trepidation, he approached the window. Opening it, he poked his head out, and looked up and down the street. All of the lights had gone out, as far as he could see.

Dean, as was his nature, jumped to conclusions. The first thought that entered his head was demons.

The second - rational thought always came _second _with Dean - was a power cut.

That made much more sense.

But no, he'd seen his clock, which was plugged in. He looked back, just to check, and sure enough, 2:44 in bright green shone back at him. And besides, the house across the street had a light on on the bottom floor.

Dean stuck his head out the window, and squinted to try and see further into the darkness. As he searched, he considered his options: spirit? Somehow, he doubted it. He'd heard of spirits being tied to houses, but not really to a street like this. Demon? Maybe. Angel? No...angels would have the television freaking out and the clock radio telling him to stick his hand in a pot of boiling water. None of that.

Finally, Dean saw a shape in the darkness. He squinted more, trying to see properly, but the figure was far away.

He knew it was probably idiotic, but he leaned out further to try and see the figure. Cold wind hit his face, but he didn't mind. It was actually quite refreshing. He remembered, back to just a while after...it happened...he'd taken the Impala out for long drives. Hours and hours, to nowhere and back. He'd turn up the tunes and stick his head out the window. The breeze would clear his head, dry his tears and make him forget about how horribly empty the passenger seat was.

As his eyes became more adjusted to the dark, he finally saw the figure. It was tall and well-built, and it wasn't just one person...demon...whatever...either. The standing one had another in his arms limp but, as far as Dean could see, still conscious, if barely. He couldn't see features, or clothes or anything, except for the one being carried looked like he was wearing a...hang on.

He'd seen that trenchcoat.

Before he could pause to think about it, he blinked and both figures had disappeared. He scanned up and down the street again, but saw that it was most definitively empty.

He wanted to go out there; to pick up a sawed-off, hunt that son of a bitch down and find out what he'd done with...no, it couldn't have been Cass. But he wasn't a hunter anymore.

He was a soccer dad. He had a job interview at a mechanic's on Monday; he watched the football with his beer; he _grocery shopped _for Christ's sake.

He checked the salt lines again, before sliding the window quietly shut and walking back towards the door. If there was...something...out there, Dean was certain it couldn't be for anyone besides him, and the salt would protect everyone in the house.

Maybe it wasn't anything at all...maybe this was all some sick dream. Some sick, twisted, waking dream.

Whiskey sounded really good right now.

* * *

**A/N: When asked 'where should Sam take Cass to if he's injured,' my friend replied with; 'to a magical stream/fountain that has healing properties' and 'to the Ghetto to get drugs.' Needless to say I didn't take her advice. *Sigh*. At least she's entertaining. Thanks so much for the response to the last chapter, I really appreciate the support and it keeps me going. So don't hesitate to review this chapter! ;)  
**


	6. Prophet

"_Sam's unshaking faith in you was only the result of all you'd been through, Dean. He clung to you like you were the last lifejacket on the sinking ship; and you never let him down. Not once. Not when you went to Hell, not when you almost said 'yes' to Michael. _

"_Even now. Now that Lucifer's gone, and the world is back to its boring norm, he's still faithful. He's taken your spot of protector. I know you're confused, but I'd be willing to bet that, if you looked out your window right now, he'd be watching over you. Making sure you don't get yourself in any kind of trouble. Making sure you're happy. _

"_Ever wondered why that streetlight outside your house kept flickering?"_

_

* * *

_

Dean woke, thankful for the bright sunlight seeping through the curtains. No random men outside houses in the daytime.

He turned to see Lisa waking beside him. She smiled when she saw he was already awake, and reached over to place a small kiss on his lips.

"Morning," she said, as he smiled weakly, something which Lisa hardly ever got to see.

Dean groaned and got up out of bed, without saying anything more. He walked over to the window, and when he looked out, he saw a man in a yellow crane, seemingly fixing the streetlight. He let it pass; stretching as he thought about what he had to do today.

Lisa was a working mom, so he'd promised to take Ben to school. Ben loved to ride shotgun in the Impala, listening to Dean's favorite music, but Lisa was less than impressed with this. She knew full well the lack of safety mechanisms on that car, and how fast Dean liked to drive.

Then he'd told Lisa he would pick up things for supper. Dean Winchester shopping; he hadn't even known _how _to shop until a few months ago, but now the repetitive walking up and down the aisles and buying the same things was almost...therapeutic. If asked a few months ago to 'buy things for supper', Dean would've scoffed and suggested cheeseburgers on Brian Johnson's credit card.

Maybe after he'd done all that he could go talk to some of the people on the street; scope out the history of the neighborhood, see if there had ever been any violent deaths on the street...

No, he wasn't a hunter anymore. No more of that.

He'd take Ben to school, like he'd promised. Then he'd do the grocery shopping, like he'd promised. Then maybe he'd watch a football game.

Like he'd promised.

* * *

Dean strolled up and down the aisles, smiling a little as his feet tread the familiar pattern of the grocery store. As he walked he picked up tomatoes, onions, garlic and finally angel hair spaghetti - Lisa had a thing for Italian food.

He ventured into the non-food section of the store - the novelty of supermarkets would never be lost on him. He could pick up groceries, office supplies and a mountain bike all on one trip, and he would always marvel at how much stuff could fit in one gigantic store. He saved a trip to the pet store section till last; he truly was a child at heart. He'd even seriously contemplated buying a tropical fish just for the hell of it, if he didn't think Lisa would kill him or if Ben would kill it.

On his way to the checkout, he passed through the book section. It seemed like these days, the littlest thing would set him off; just one smidgeon of something that reminded him of his brother. He passed through it today by mistake, as it was always a place he tended to avoid. He found himself trying to blink away tears. He tried not to look at the books, their covers or their titles, but instead hastened to get out of the section as swiftly as possible.

Just as he was about to leave, however, something caught his eye. He was trained to recognize it, and was drawn to it like a magpie is drawn to something shiny.

The unmistakable black cover and bold lettering of the 'Supernatural' books by Carver Edlund.

"Son of a bitch..." He picked the book up. The title - Morning Watch - was one he'd not seen before. Meaning Chuck had started to publish again. Meaning Dean would have to go give him a stern talking to, possibly at gunpoint. Meaning Chuck would stutter and give him those puppy dog eyes, and Dean would back off, because Dean's always been a sucker for puppy dog eyes.

He peered at the front cover. There was a man with short hair and his shirt off - of course. Always with the toplessness. He held no weapon, which was unusual for the cover of these books, and in the background, silhouetted by a bright light from above was the outline of a man with a pair of large, shadowy black wings.

Of course: this will have been when he got pulled out of Hell, so the angel in the background must have been Castiel. He looked for the handprint, and sure enough, there it was on the left shoulder of the shoddy representation of himself.

It didn't even look like him. Seriously, he was definitely going to have to give Chuck a stern talking to about _that. _

He flipped the book over as he walked towards the checkout, expecting to see a blurb, but found none. There was no indication of a summary whatsoever, not even inside the front cover.

"Wow, Chuck. If you want to get your books to sell you have to give us _something_..." he muttered to himself, walking and beginning to leaf through the pages. The first page said the title again; second held various copyright information, but the dedication on the third pages was what really piqued Dean's interest.

_For D. Winchester _

"The hell...?" he whispered, reading the name again to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

_For D. Winchester._

_Only Becky and I truly know what an inspiration you were to this story._

_It's time you got something back for a change._

_Thanks for everything. _

Dean's heart couldn't help but melt at that. He didn't realize Chuck was grateful for protection they had offered him - as far as he knew, he was burdened with his prophecies, and hated having an archangel hovering over his house all the time. But upon seeing this, he didn't really feel like threatening the poor guy at gunpoint anymore.

So long as Becky didn't make him go to another convention. Then he might have to consider it.

Without knowing it, he had arrived at the checkouts, so he tossed the book into the cart and began to unload groceries. He didn't think about it again until he bought it; with a _legal _credit card. The novelty of that would never be lost on him, either.

He didn't crack the book open until he got home - he was morbidly curious about how Chuck would've written this. But after he'd gotten past the title pages and the dedication, which still puzzled him, all the rest of the pages appeared to be blank. He flipped through the book several times, but still found nothing.

He would have to talk to Chuck at some point, because seriously, this was getting a little ridiculous.

He kept flipping through the pages, knowing there had to be some sort of trick. Maybe one of those flipbook cartoons or something...but no, the pages were blank. They were blank upside down too, and sideways, and any way Dean looked at them.

He sat down heavily with a huff on Lisa's brown leather sofa. As he flipped through the book for the final time, he wondered if the wealthy Scandinavian investor would approve of Chuck using their money to publish a _blank book_.

On this flip through, though, he noticed something he hadn't spotted before. On a page towards the end of the book, he saw writing. Just a few lines of black writing in italics, but it was enough.

_Hi, Dean._

_I know you're reading this, and I know you're the only one who's reading this. _

_You and your brother have done much to help me; more than you'll ever probably realize. _

Dean's heart stuttered at that, and he felt that all-too-familiar heat behind his eyes grow. He kept reading.

_So it's high time for your grand prize. I know this book doesn't seem like much, right now, but trust me. It's everything you deserve and more. _

Dean paused. Again he needed to remind himself that the book was _blank _and he was pretty sure Chuck either didn't realize this or had actually gone insane. And it was certainly a hit to his self-confidence that not only he, but now Chuck, too, only thought he was worth a few pieces of blank paper and a drawing of a half-naked man.

_You're probably wondering what the hell's going on. __I'll just leave by saying that you'll be able to read what's on these pages when you're at home._

_I'll see you soon._

Dean blinked. He couldn't make heads or tails of that message. He read it again. Nope, still didn't make sense.

He could only read it when he was at home? Well, last time he checked, he _was _at home, or at least Lisa's home that he had been staying in for the last two months.

But then he thought about it. He hadn't _really _thought about this place as home, not ever. He'd never had a home, not since he was four, in Lawrence. Is that what Chuck meant? He had to go back to Lawrence?

Jeez, since when was this guy so damn cryptic?

Dean sighed, sliding the book into the pocket of the jacket, which he had neglected to take off as he entered the house. Maybe he didn't want to go to Lawrence. Maybe there were too many memories. Dean had to admit; whenever he went there he lost a member of his family. The place was death.

But he was so _damn _curious about what was actually written in the book. Was it worth it? To satisfy his curiosity and read the words that may or may not appear when he went to Lawrence, but to have to face the pain he'd feel when he got there? If Bobby or Sam were here, they would sagely contribute with '_curiosity killed the cat_', and Dean would snappily retaliate with '_satisfaction brought it back'_, but there was nobody to tell him what to do anymore.

No Mom, no Dad. No Sam. No more Winchesters. Nothing but a bath-robed prophet, and this book. That was all that was left of the Winchester legacy, and it deserved to be read.

With that thought in his mind, Dean stood and walked with determination from the house he'd never called a home, and sat in the driver's seat of the Impala.

He put the key in the ignition, and his favorite Zeppelin tape from this morning blared on again. He felt strangely comforted. The car, the smell of the leather and the music…he was heading out on a roadtrip. He could almost picture Sammy with him, making fun of his music or stretching out his long frame in the back seat. Sam had always looked so peaceful then, when he was catching up on some much needed sleep in the Impala, under Dean's ever-diligent eye. He was plagued by no nightmares there.

Suddenly Sam was a little kid again – a tiny 8 year old who thought his Dad was a traveling salesman. Sometimes he would fall asleep in Dean's arms, and Dean would hold him there, feeling each of his little brother's deep, peaceful breaths. Despite how much he would tease him, or call him a girl, all Dean really wanted to do was protect Sam. So he watched him while he slept, and hoped that all the monsters and the werewolves and the wendigoes wouldn't get him, or find their way into his life; his mind; his dreams.

None of them knew that the little sleeping boy would one day save the world. John might have known, but Dean's twelve year old mind satisfied itself with the knowledge that John knew everything, so there was no point in asking him what he knew, because recalling it would take forever.

Opening his eyes, Dean was surprised to find his cheek dry when he passed a hand over it. He'd probably used up all his tears.

But he did feel calmer in the Impala. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was Sam's spirit, but there was certainly something about the car that made him feel at peace. It was the one steady thing they'd had in their lives, a home if they'd ever had one.

A home.

"Chuck, you cryptic bastard…" Dean muttered to himself as he fished the book back out from his pocket. He flipped through it again, but it was still blank.

Dean was slightly disappointed. He was about to throw the book out of the open window to his left, but he spotted the page his thumb was in.

He peered at it curiously. It was the first page, after the dedication. He watched with awe as the page under his thumb became slowly and steadily stained with black. The stains formed letters, words. Words turned into sentences and before his eyes, a story appeared under his fingertips.

"Son of a…" Dean pulled the book back inside the car and flipped through the pages one last time, pleased now to see that there was in fact an entire story there, as real as it had been there the whole time. He shouldn't be impressed with something such as this; he'd seen angels do more with less. He wondered how Chuck could manage this, but didn't dwell on it. A Prophet of the Lord…with superpowers? He'd seen weirder.

He looked at the first page again, and read the first words of the Prophecy.

"_As a new dawn broke in the life of the Winchesters, I felt I couldn't leave. Theoretically my part in this story was done...but I suppose I'm never done. Not with these boys anyway..."_

_

* * *

_

**A/N: Phew! This is the first time I've completed six chapters of a story. Not including that one I wrote however long ago which doesn't count because each chapter was about 100 words. Aren't you proud? **


	7. Author

"_It's got to be a surreal experience, reading about yourself. Dean's sort of used to it, but it still feels weird to him. He'll think it's mean, me talking about Sam like I do; just a painful reminder._

"_He'll find out soon enough."_

* * *

Dean's only thoughts were on the book in front of him. Nothing else, only the book.

His first thought was what bothered him most: he quickly found out that this was not, in fact, when Castiel pulled him out of Hell, but rather this 'new dawn' was _now_. Chuck talked about things that had happened in the last year, he talked about Cass falling, he talked about he and Sam being the vessels – this was crazy.

He wouldn't publish out of order, so if the magically appearing words weren't enough of a clue, Dean knew this book was for his eyes only. What Dean didn't know was what the hell it meant.

He was talking about Lucifer and the Apocalypse – but the thing that bothered Dean most was the way he seemed to talk about himself as though he was God. He thought they'd dispelled that over exaggerated notion from Chuck's brain back when they first met him. He felt like the God of his own story (that tended to happen with writers, this Dean knew) but to keep talking about it like he did was disturbing and douchey. So, _so _douchey.

"I seriously need to talk to this guy…" Dean said to himself, turning another page. "He has an inflamed-ego problem."

"_Yes, Sam Winchester has been through much. That's why I did what I did. As a sort of reward for all he's been through. He won't rot in the pit, and he gets to be a member of the 'much better club' - as Castiel called it."_

Dean had barely been able to stop tears forming when Chuck had brought up his brother. The tears burst forth now, running hot and shameful down his cheeks. However much he wanted to hide his sorrow – he'd only let Lisa see him cry once or twice, and never Ben – each tear shed over his brother was a sort of release, a form of letting go, since he'd had no body to burn.

But now he was epically confused. Dean remembered welcoming Cass into the 'human' club – in the future, which technically still hadn't happened yet – and Cass telling him that he was once part of a 'much better club'. Obviously that was what Chuck was referring to but…he was so confused. It was an information overload as well as an emotion overload, and Dean hardly knew where to begin.

Chuck had 'done' something. To Sam. And apparently Sam wouldn't rot in the pit anymore. The only viable option Dean thought of was that Chuck had made some kind of deal, or had gone poking at the cage, which he himself had promised not to do.

Alternatively he could've persuaded Raphael to resurrect Sam or something, but as far as Dean knew, Raphael was still stuck in a ring of holy fire in Waterville, Maine. If he had escaped, rest assured he would've been after Castiel like a moth to a flame and the poor fallen angel would've had to die one more time. Geez, how many archangels had the guy pissed off?

So…say Chuck had managed to get Sam back – Dean scrunched his eyes shut: he _really _didn't want to get his hopes up – and the cage had remained intact. Sam was here, on Earth, and by some stroke of luck, Lucifer wasn't. So…Chuck had…made him part of the 'much better club?'

Chuck had made Sam an angel?

Either the guy had a serious superiority complex, or the 'much better club' referred to the mile high club.

Dean wasn't sure which thought was more insane.

As far as he knew, prophets couldn't make people angels…he wasn't even sure how angels were made. Surely only God could do that.

Chuck was…oh.

This was screwed up.

This Prophecy needed to be taken with a pinch of salt, so it seemed. Chuck had gotten it into his head that he was suddenly 'God' and he'd pulled Sam from perdition and made him an angel.

But the writing – apart from the crazy lies – seemed perfectly sane. He was right about some things, and his 'words of wisdom' really were very wise. So maybe the guy hadn't gone insane, maybe he'd just surrendered to his 'M. Night-super-dick' side and made himself God in his own story. Maybe the whole 'Sam is an angel' thing was simply for literary symmetry.

So, if that was the case, why had he wanted Dean to read it? It was apparently everything he deserved and more…if Chuck had just been writing a totally off track story and just wanted Dean to critically acclaim it, then why had he acted like it was such a gift?

If it was a sad attempt to cheer him up, it really wasn't helping – at all. The infeasible storyline had just gotten Dean's hopes up for one brief moment of joy, and now had it all crashing back down around him. The tears on his face had, at least, dried now, and Dean went back to accepting that he was not seeing his brother and there was no way to get him back.

It was only now that Dean realized how hot it was in the car. Summer in Indiana wasn't as hot as it could get, but it was still July, and the black Impala could act like an oven when it wanted to. He grasped the old-fashioned crank handle and twisted it so the window scrolled down. A fresh breeze hit him in the face, refreshing and smelling of cut grass. He heard children laughing, playing in sprinklers or something, sucking on popsicles as they ran across their artificially green lawns.

Yeah, this was the life.

With reluctance, he turned back to the book. It hurt him to read, but he felt as though he should at least try and accept Chuck's pathetic attempt to cheer him up.

"_What do you require of me?"_

"_Sam, I need you to go to Dean."_

"_Father...I...I'm not sure I can."_

"_I understand, Sam. But trust me on this one: Dean's not happier without you."_

That was certainly true. What the hell was this?

"_Father, if I go back...I made him promise. He needs a normal life, after all this. Angels...constitute 'not normal'."_

"Yeah, well screw normal. Right in the face," Dean muttered absentmindedly to himself.

"_Sam...I found you."_

_Realization dawned as Chuck spoke, and Sam's eyes opened wide in shock. Now he knew where he'd heard the voice in his head before. He fell to his knees again…_

This was getting a little over the top. It made him uncomfortable, the way Chuck kept thinking of himself as God.

But maybe…the whole 'words-appear-out-of-nowhere-in-the-Impala' thing; what if this was all true? Chuck _was _God, and Sam was an angel? And back?

He didn't want to believe it, it was too dangerous. But how he _wanted _to believe it!

He needed to talk to Chuck, seriously.

Dean kept reading anyway, hoping that later events in the book would clear things up.

He read about Cass, and the archangel Sariel who betrayed him – he sounded like a real ass to Dean – and about the poor guy falling once again. He read about 'Sam' meeting Cass, and them fighting.

"_I know you're confused, but I'd be willing to bet that, if you looked out your window right now, he'd be watching over you. Making sure you don't get yourself in any kind of trouble. Making sure you're happy. Ever wondered why that streetlight outside your house kept flickering?"_

The streetlights, the car alarm, the strange figures in the darkness…that had all happened. With every page he read, this story was becoming more and more viable. That was, of course, assuming Chuck really was _God _which was stupid and crazy in itself.

He finished the book in a few hours, the final chapter being his actions this morning, when he bought the book. There was the page towards the end that had told him how to read the book in the first place. Then, on the next page, were the words:

_Hope things are cleared up. You'll thank me, Dean._

"Like hell are they cleared up…" he mumbled, flipping through the final pages, which were blank. With a deep sigh, he tossed the book down on the leather of the passenger seat.

Just as he did so, he heard his phone ring and vibrate in the pocket of his coat. He fished it out, and checked the caller I.D. before flipping it open to answer it. He had to do a double take of the I.D.

"Cass?" he said down the phone, expecting it to be someone who had stolen the angel's phone when he'd skedaddled back to heaven.

"Yes, it's me," said the familiar gruff voice from the other end of the phone. Alas, Dean's life just got weirder and weirder.

"I thought you were up in heaven, suppressing the angel mob. What happened?" he asked, although he secretly already knew.

"It's a whole angry-archangel thing. I'll tell you later. I don't have much time."

"Are you okay?" Dean had read that he'd been pretty busted up after the fight with Sariel.

"I'm fine. I just feel as though there's something I should tell you."

"Yeah?"

"It's…" There was a pause, and Dean only heard crackling silence on the other end. "I have to go," he said curtly. The line went dead.

"Son of a…" Dean looked at the screen, and then tossed the phone down at his feet.

Dean considered tracking the call and finding out where Castiel was, but something more pressing was on his mind.

That call had confirmed his worst fears: he knew that at least some of this story had truth in it... how much of a stretch was it that the rest of it was true? He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to get his hopes up, but the matter was pressing. He needed to know.

He would find Castiel later, but right now, he had to go to Chuck, and find out what the hell was going on. With a determined scowl, Dean turned the keys in the ignition, leant back on the seat to look behind him as he pulled out, and sped off to Chuck's house.

* * *

"Who was that?" Sam said, coming into what was once a living room with chicken soup and an extra pillow for Cass. Castiel himself was lying down on the ground, surrounded by various blankets and pillows.

It had been less than twenty-four hours and the angel was already healing well. He wasn't coughing up blood anymore, and he could sit up if he really wanted to. The only odd thing was his insatiable appetite for chicken soup. Fortunately, Sam was an uncanny but excellent healer – and chicken soup maker – and Castiel would probably be good as new soon. Sam even thought he saw a hint of a smile in his eyes.

"Nobody," Castiel said quickly, shoving the little silver cell phone under the covers. He looked nervously up at Sam, who had a knowing expression on his face. He gently set the soup down on his fellow angel's lap, and Castiel just watched him as he reached under the covers and pulled out Castiel's phone.

With a sad smile, Sam said, "You're really bad at hiding things." He flipped open the phone, but before he even looked at the recent contacts he knew who Castiel had been talking to. "So what'd you tell him?"

"Nothing, honestly."

"…but he'll track the cell."

Castiel smiled bitterly. "That's what I was hoping. But…I suppose you'd leave if he did."

"You know me too well."

Castiel grimaced again, and looked down. "I'm sorry, Sam. I just don't see…"

"…I know," he interrupted, pocketing the cell phone. Castiel was slightly disappointed to see the warm bowl of chicken soup disappear with a thought from Sam. He was shocked to feel Sam's hand on his face, stroking his brow as though he was checking for a fever. A familiar drowsy feeling encompassed him, and he could feel power emanating from the angel next to him.

"Time to sleep now," were the last words he heard before slipping into a deep, unmarred unconsciousness.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so I owe certain people (ie. you) a big apology. Up until now, I'd successfully stayed one chapter ahead of myself, meaning I was never too stressed about getting behind. But now, as it is, chapter eight is...nowhere. Like, literally, two paragraphs. But at least I have chapter seven, right? I'll finish the next chapter asap, but you'll have to bear with me because I'm in the middle of some a-levels! :) **


	8. God

_Previously:_

_::::That call with Castiel had confirmed his worst fears: he knew that at least some of this story had truth in it... how much of a stretch was it that the rest of it was true? He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to get his hopes up, but the matter was pressing. He needed to know._

_He would find Castiel later, but right now, he had to go to Chuck, and find out what the hell was going on. With a determined scowl, Dean turned the keys in the ignition, leant back on the seat to look behind him as he pulled out, and sped off to Chuck's house.:::::_

_

* * *

_

"_I keep writing because I have to. It's a certain compulsion; can't really explain it. Dean has the Prophecy now – as he calls it – but I want to keep writing. The Winchesters' story is not over, and nor is my part in it. _

"_Now if you don't mind, I have a guest coming for dinner."_

_

* * *

_

'Sweet Home Alabama' played on the fading radio station as Dean sped along the blacktop. He was almost out of range of the station, but the music was good, and he half-hoped the station wouldn't flicker and die, at least not before the end of this song.

Late July heat was all around him in the car – even with the windows down, the day was still and muggy and there was not much breeze to be had. He drove with more determination towards the setting sun despite the heat.

Dean was back to the life he remembered. Driving along, with nothing but endless highway, windows open to the summer heat. He hardly had the chance to enjoy it though; he had more important things on his mind.

Lynyrd Skynyrd finally was drowned out by static as Dean crossed the state border. He didn't bother changing the channel, but instead switched the radio off.

A million thoughts ran through his head. He wondered what he would find out when he got to Chuck's house. He wondered whether Chuck would even be there when he got there; he had no doubt that Chuck would know he was coming.

He considered the options: Chuck was _God _– that just got more and more ridiculous every time he thought about it – and Sam was back – _don't think about it, don't get your hopes up. _Either that or this was all some sick joke and he'd go back to the way things were before, and Chuck was just a Prophet and an author like he'd always assumed…he just had these unseen powers that made words appear out of thin air.

His thoughts swirled into his head until one bled into the other, like the fields of the Midwestern farms melding together into one big green blur as he drove past. Like the towns melding into fields melding back into towns.

There came a time when he couldn't bear the silence any more. He switched the radio back on, searching for a good station. He couldn't bear to put the tapes in, it would only bring up memories he'd rather forget. Songs would spur thoughts of long drives, heading towards another hunt, listening to Sam singing along, the whole time not being able to carry a tune in a bucket. The radio yielded nothing, only some shitty country songs, but he listened anyway, hoping annoyance at the music would block out thoughts of anything else.

He stopped by a diner at the side of the road, for a boost. He'd missed lunch because he was driving, and suddenly felt remorse because dinner was supposed to be Lisa's spaghetti. He pulled out his new cell phone – paid for _legally_; he would never get over that – and sent Lisa a text. He hadn't left a note or anything before he left, so he apologized now, telling her that something important had to be done.

He assumed Lisa wouldn't question it, because she knew that when Dean meant important, he meant, like, end-of-the-world important.

He grimaced as he chugged down almost-warm coffee. He was sitting in this crappy little diner; a real shithole, even by Dean's standards – and Dean had eaten in some pretty shitty diners. The waitress looked enthusiastic enough to serve people their drinks, though. She was pretty, too, blonde hair falling just past her shoulders and apron hugging her hips nicely. Dean had neither the energy nor the motivation to hit on her. Besides, she reminded him a little too much of Jo.

_Aw, jeez. Can I make this coffee Irish?_

Dean groaned, and rested his head in his palms, elbows resting on the countertop.

"Something bothering you, buddy?"

Dean looked up and to his left where the voice came from. He was greeted with a wide smile. "Thanks man, but…uh…nothing you can help me with."

He couldn't have been much older than Dean, but his dark brown hair was already receding – Dean guessed it was because the guy brought his work home with him: there were various documents littering the table in front of him. He wore a dark grey suit and his briefcase was pulled as close to him as it could possibly be.

"Hey, try me," the man said, cocking his head to the side in concern for Dean, something which was eerily reminiscent of Castiel. "What is it, then? A relationship? Your family?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, wondering if it was that obvious that he was dealing with a family problem. "Um…yeah. It is family, actually."

"Lay it on me."

Dean smiled a little at this stranger, so willing to listen to his problems. He briefly hoped he wouldn't charge him for this. Whatever, he'd buy the guy a coffee or something. "Uh…well. It's a long story. And it'll probably sound like a soap opera, but…" Dean took a deep breath. "So, my brother, he…well, we thought he'd died. But then there's a …rumor going around that he's not, and it's…" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's not…_himself _anymore."

The man looked at him sympathetically. "That does sound like the plot of _Ugly Betty_," he laughed, something infectious that made Dean smile too, in spite of himself. "Listen buddy," he said, clapping a comforting hand on Dean's left shoulder. "You just gotta accept your brother the way he is, you know?"

"Yeah…" Dean laughed once. "It's just all a little confusing at the moment." The man nodded knowingly. "In fact I was just…uh…heading to my _father's _house to…um…get some answers." This, Dean thought, was pretty much as close to the truth as he was willing to admit.

"That's the spirit, man. Face this head-on." Dean smiled.

"Thanks, dude. Here, let me buy you a coffee for your trouble." The man scoffed and began to collect his sheets from all over the counter top.

"No, please. It's no problem – I'm leaving now anyway." The man stuffed his papers haphazardly into his briefcase, standing up. "But hey, listen, if you ever want to talk again, here's my card."

"Thanks…" The man slipped him a business card over the counter. Dean peered at it, reading that the guy's name was Dan Price, and he worked for a company called Ashcroft Enterprises. When he looked up again, Dan was gone, and when he looked towards the door to say goodbye, he'd already disappeared.

The drive to Chuck's house was not far after that. Dean didn't notice the countryside anymore; he was concentrating on getting there, and nothing else.

It occurred to him that he didn't know what he was going to actually say when he got there. To start a conversation with 'So… you're God,' would be slightly awkward, to say the least.

Soon enough, he pulled up outside the house, and with the creeping sense of déjà vu up his spine, set upon the front door with determination. With a roll of his eyes and a scowl, he knocked.

"It's open," called a voice from inside and Dean pushed open the door.

Chuck's house looked exactly as it always had; empty liquor bottles strewn in the most awkward and random of places. When he walked into the living room/study/sometimes bedroom of Chuck's, he saw the familiar untidy piles of manuscripts, scribbled on and in a kind of order that he was sure only made sense to the author himself.

Speaking of the devil – holy…mother, that was an inappropriate phrase to use _right now _– he suddenly heard Chuck's voice coming from across the room.

"I always bet on you being the sentimental type, Dean." He was sitting in a huge, shabby recliner on the opposite side of the room, facing away from Dean.

He couldn't help it. "Huh?" he asked, dumbly, walking towards the chair.

At that, Chuck spun around to face Dean. He wasn't wearing his usual boxers-bathrobe ensemble that he used to sport so well, but instead a crisp white shirt and dress pants. In one hand was a glass of scotch, in the other, twirling in an infinite, annoying circle was…

"This amulet," Chuck began, looking up at Dean, who began to get the uncomfortable feeling he was been looked _into _rather than _at. _"It was a symbol of your brother's love." Suddenly, it stopped twirling and came to an abrupt rest. "You don't realize how much it hurt him when you threw it away. Think fast…"

Dean _did _have to think fast, but caught the necklace just in time. He looked at Chuck for some sort of explanation, but it wasn't for long. For, almost as soon as it met with the skin of his palm, he felt it begin to heat up. It burned an impossibly bright white and soon it was too hot to touch. Juggling it, he almost dropped it but before he did it immediately cooled and changed back to its original color.

He looked up, trying to form a question on his lips, "Wh -?" Chuck just smiled.

Proof, Dean thought, if there ever was any.

"So you're here about the book, right?"

Dean simply stared at Chuck, jaw slack and eyes wide. He remembered why he was here. "Y-yes. The book." He coughed. "What the hell?"

Chuck shrugged. "It's…what it is."

Dean scoffed. "It's very well written, if that's what you want me to say." He passed a hand over his face, beginning to pace. "What did you just do it to hurt me or something?"

Dean watched as Chuck stood from his chair, looking like a kicked puppy. "Hurt you?" He sounded truly insulted. "No…I wouldn't…would _never _write to deliberately hurt someone. That's the highest form of blasphemy, and that's coming from _me_," Chuck said, laughing a little. Dean briefly wondered if Jesus would occasionally talk this passionately about carpentry.

He shook the thought, still too afraid to not be skeptical. "Look, Chuck. I'm not buying it."

Chuck sighed, and looked at Dean sadly. "Surely you've seen more ridiculous things in your life?" Dean did admit that it was true, but he didn't say it out loud. He wouldn't let Chuck be right. He was actually pretty lucky Dean was being this civil – if it weren't for the extraordinary circumstances, he'd be tearing God an epic set of new ones for all He did…or didn't do.

Not that the point was valid, because Dean still didn't believe this guy was _God_.

"What is it you want me to say, Dean?" Chuck gazed at him imploringly, before walking over to his desk and setting down his drink. "Look, I told you the truth in that book. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…" He chuckled to Himself, stretching out a hand to rest it on a sizeable pile of old and edited manuscripts. "…hand on the Gospel."

Dean hardly knew what to say. He was powerless to do anything but use the skepticism and doubt that his family had practically patented. "So, sure. You're God, and Sam…Sammy's an angel." He looked down. "That's believable."

"You need more proof than you already got?" Chuck walked up to him – did they not teach personal space rules in Heaven? – and all but forced him to look up at him, simply by his…what? His strength of character? "Okay, you know what? Believe me, don't believe me…I'm just trying to help _you_." He looked Dean in the eye – apparently they didn't blink in Heaven either. "Look, I've put you through enough shit, this is just an apology. Trust me, alright? You've trusted me in the past."

Dean was silent. He'd been fed a lot of information today, not all of it necessarily information he wanted to hear. He thought he was done with all this, but then again, nothing's ever done, is it? Dean would never be done. He didn't really want any of it to be true. Dean knew that things that sounded too good to be true usually were, and he knew that if you let yourself get caught up in them, you just end up hurt. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare, but now that he knew the truth – or as much of the truth as he was ever going to get – there was someone he needed to see. Someone he needed to find.

"Atta boy, Dean," Chuck supplied, interjecting with a rather redundant comment and a laugh that simply infuriated Dean further.

This was it. Dean decided to take the leap of faith and chose to take all he'd just read as fact. In which case, he needed to speed like Hell back to Cicero and find the house all the kids thought was haunted.

* * *

**A/N: HOLY MOTHER that chapter took me a long time. I'm sorry about that. Anyway, only two chapters left folks. Thanks for all the support up until now :) **


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